Proving Nothing
by somatogenic
Summary: Once, Gregory House went without vicodin for a day. It was the first and last time he did. H/W set a year after the operation.


**AUTHOR:** misstressmax (lj)/ somatogenic placed in 3rd season

BIG LOVE TO twitchykris FOR BEING MY AMAZING BETA

Once, Gregory House went without vicodin for a day. It was the first and last time he did.

-

It was a sunny mid-summer's day, and nothing could be better. His convertible flew down the open country road, top off, wind gushing through his hair, good company beside him. It was a day off for the two doctors; the day right after James' second divorce: a day of celebration. They drove until they were hungry, and then sat down at a local dinner to eat dinner. Through the grimy, tinted windows, they watched as the last of the day's light faded.

Greg looked up at James and found him whimsically twirling the flagged toothpick that had accompanied his burger. The light caught his friend's dimples, making his face glow with sun and joy. House

smiled to himself and happened to glance over James' shoulder at the clock behind him. Shit. It was eight already. Without knowing why, he nervously fumbled for his pill bottle.

"What are you doing?" James chuckled, securing a lone pickle stranded on the edge of House's plate and chewing on it.

"Pills," he mumbled, and shook out a few into his palm. His suddenly unsure hands tipped the canister too far, and his medicine spilled over the counter. Still shaking, he cleaned it up, though not without help.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, and was about to pop the pills, when their waitress waddled over.

"Is ever' thin' alright here, huns?" she asked without caring, eyeing the bottle held in House's trembling hands suspiciously. James, seizing up the situation, acted accordingly.

"No, ma'm, everything thing's fine. We were just leaving," And with a pointed look, they were out and back in the car. The moment they sat down in their seats, however, James exploded.

"What was that?"

"How many pills have I taken today?" House answered, fingering the label on his bottle as he avoided his friend's eyes. It took a second, but recognition dawned on Wilson's face. An awkward silence followed, leaving Greg wondering why he didn't just take the pills already. They sat in his clenched fist, waiting, and some of the sweat from his palms started to disintegrate their coating.

"Is this the first day you've . . . " James' words were tight, and his frightened eyes met Greg's own, forcible with their need. Not being able to look away, he closed his eyes and swallowed, wondering briefly why this was so difficult for him.

"Yes."

Another silence threatened to stretch out, so Greg shifted gears and backed up the car.

"Maybe I should--"

"No."

-

When Greg finally got home he collapsed on his couch, breathing labored. He could do this. He could get through this. It was simply pain, that's all, he told himself even as the throbbing reached his sensitive solar plexus. He managed to drag his spasming body to his bedroom, though later he'd have no recollection of how he got there.

The pain wasn't fire; it had burnt past that, but it became so blinding he couldn't see straight. He let out a scream as he felt his eyes cross. He started to hyperventilate, to panic. Isn't this what he had mocked his patients for a thousand times? To breathe, to calm down? This fragile logic penetrated his fevered mind, and he took deep, shuddering breaths. The next wave of pain came and left no shred of logic, only utter animalistic terror. He flailed, hitting his bed frame with his arms, trying to take his mind off his leg, but it wasn't enough. At last, he subsided into a fetus-like position, interrupted only by the hiccupping of his spasming body. The jerks settled down into twitches, and then into subtle jolts.

Greg opened his bloodshot eyes, brain fried by the vehement torture. The world swam and shifted before him, never staying still long enough for definition. It wasn't consciousness, nor was it a dream. He felt transcended beyond life as he had known it. The pain, like his mind, wasn't gone, nor was it with him--it just floated along beside him. Images and sounds drifted past him in his daze. The ones he tried to recognize sent him reeling. Without warning, his world went black.

-

When House awoke he was still lightheaded and dizzy, but recognized his surroundings. It was the coma guy's room, except he was the one strapped to a bed. Sure enough, when he twisted his head to the side (no easy feat when his head was swimming) there was the fat bastard, the steady beeps of his heart monitor oddly soothing. He listened to his own and drifted off once more.

The next time, some not-so-quiet sobbing woke him. To his surprise, it was Wilson, who was sitting by his bed and shaking with tears.

"I shouldn't have said anything to him about it. I didn't realize-"

"Hush, it's okay," was the stiff answer from Cuddy, and House had to try to keep the grin off his face at her awkward comforting.

"No- it's not. I-"

"-Am a self centered pussy that has more Jewish regret than Cuddy's ass?" House finished, unable to resist. Wilson's relief was mirrored in his trademark grin, the one that started this whole mess. House frowned and Wilson adjusted his tie with unnecessary manly grunting (or "clearing his throat", as he called it, but House wasn't fooled).

"It's- good to see you're better," he squawked, and exited quickly, whipping away tears. Cuddy gave House a reproving look.

"You can be such an asshole sometimes. Get some rest and I'll check on you tomorrow. We'll talk then," was her ever-sensible parting shot. There was a pause, then she peeked back in the doorway.

"You're not as strong as you think you are, House," she said softly, and then she was gone.

It was only in the darkness and in the company of someone who'd never tell that he whispered, "I know."


End file.
